“Forget it.”
“I did not mean to offend,” Charles said hastily. “Where did you encounter the woman?”
“Last night on the plains. I almost ran her over with my horse. She was out alone.”
Charles’ forehead creased. “Alone? Was she in any distress? Darcy! You should have brought her to Netherfield, I would have provided aid.”
Darcy stared at him, irritated. “I wouldn’t have left her if she were hurt in any way. She insisted she was fine and seemed to have no use for my offer of escort.”
Charles stared at him, nonplussed. “No use? For you?”
“She did not know who I am, of course.”
“No, no, but I do not like the thought of a woman alone at night having almost been run down by that beast of yours. I do hope she made it home safely. Perhaps I should make inquiries.”
Darcy sighed. It was just like Charles to worry over a stranger he had never met. The man would rescue a butterfly if he thought it in distress. “Forget it. I am certain she is fine. She seemed most capable.”
“Capable and beautiful? High praise from a Darcy.”
“I did not say—”
“But you implied it.” Charles grinned. “I do believe you have a fancy.”
Darcy turned and strode across the room.
Charles called after him, voice rising in a wine-induced sing-song cadence. “If I see a raven-haired beauty with fire in her eyes, I will be sure to make her acquaintance. She may very well attend the assembly.”
Darcy shut the door to the sound of Charles’ muffled giggles. Intolerable. No one outside of Pemberley had any respect for the dignity of a prince.
If anyone had suggested that he had gone looking for the mysterious beauty from last night, Darcy would have scoffed. A groom saddled his horse, and he mounted, this time riding across the land parallel to the woods, in the full revelation of sun. If he found himself near the place where he had seen her before, that was just a coincidence.
Darcy cursed under his breath. He had never been one to play games with the truth, especially the truths he told to himself. He hovered on the edge of captivation, and for no more reason than she had defied him and her fey moonlit beauty.
So he was a fool. A man like any other, to desire to pursue a woman for a reason so flimsy it may as well be nothing. Darcy pulled up, a distant figure coming closer as he waited.
A woman, plain blue dress flapping in the breeze as she read a book, a wicker basket over one arm. How could she even walk with her attention trained inside the pages? Her hair was dark, loosely restrained. She looked up, perhaps sensing his presence, and stilled.
By what witchery did he come upon her again, and near the same place as last time? Darcy dismounted, taking the reins, and walked forward.
“So,” she said when he was near, and not in a pleased tone, “you were not a figment of my misspent imagination.”
There it was again, the thread of annoyance, her bold, direct stare. Thick black lashes framed eyes the rich colour of forest soil, and there was a golden hue to her skin that spoke of hours each day spent out of doors with no care for maintaining a milky complexion; she glowed.
Darcy bowed. “My apologies, madam, for frightening you last night.”
“I was not frightened.”
She was not awed by him at all. Was this how average men were treated? If so, he found it strangely alluring. “No. Forgive the assumption. I see you suffered no ill from your fall.”
She stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. “I am not the most pleasant of women on the best of days, and the best of days this is not. No, I suffered no ill. Thank you for the inquiry. May I direct you somewhere?”
“No. I was out for a ride to refresh myself after travel.” He saw the glint of curiosity, quickly suppressed. “You must live nearby.”
“Near enough.” She began to walk again and as she did not ask him to excuse her, Darcy joined her. She glanced at him once. “You are a stranger here. I know all my neighbours.”
“I am visiting for a time. Netherfield.”
“Netherfield? Hmm. Then I am certain we shall run into each other again.”
Was that a dismissal? He ignored it. “I disturbed your walk.” He nodded at the book dangling from her fingers. “What do you read? My sister prefers gothics.”
“A treatise on the financial management of middling estates,” was the crisp reply. “I find it diverting.”
“When I was a boy, I found those books less than diverting. I preferred to run wild in the forests and leap into lakes.”
“That is the nature of boys, I suppose.” Her tone seemed to soften. She looked up at him again, and the edge of rancour was gone. “The forest is my sanctuary as well.”
“Is that where you were headed before I waylaid you?”
She hesitated, then nodded, and lifted her arm with the basket. “I was going to have tea.”
“May I join you?” It was bold of him. He did not understand himself other than to recall his mother’s words to him once.
William, one day you will meet a woman and everything in you will lean towards her. For no rhyme, no reason. It simply will be.
Should I marry her, then, mother?
He recalled her smile. We do not always marry the ones who strike us like lightning. If you are fortunate, and you are sure, you will, though.
Her silence sharpened. Darcy understood the reluctance, and a sudden thought struck him. He withdrew a long, silver needle from inside his coat. “I will vow on blood I mean you no harm.”
“An oathing needle? You carry with you an oathing needle?”
He pricked his fingertip. “I vow on the consequences of blood that I mean this woman no harm and will show her no discourtesy.” The power in the needle flared, recording the vow.
She inhaled. “That was foolish.” She hesitated. “Very well. But only if you promise not to chatter. No—do not vow it. Simply promise. I came to escape my younger sisters for a few hours.”
So she was the eldest. It did not surprise him. She carried herself as if there was a mantle of responsibility around her shoulders. “I give you my vow not to chatter. Allow me.”
Darcy reached for her basket and she handed it over with a nod of thanks for the gesture.
She led him into the woods along a path he would not have found on his own. But when she stopped, he looked around. Someone had created a small oasis. Next to a streambed was a mound of soft moss, thick and oddly placed, but perfect for sitting. There was a lack of small rocks and debris and the more he examined, the more he was convinced she had altered nature to suit herself.
“Are you a gardener?” he asked.
She took the basket from him and set it down. “Yes. You can tell I altered the grounds here? It has been a labour of years, but it is worth it.” Drawing a blanket from the basket, she spread it on the ground and then withdrew several other items. “Sit.”
Darcy obeyed, enjoying the novelty of being ordered around.
“It is not extravagant, I was not expecting company,” she said. “Just jam and bread, apples, cheese. . .and wine.”
His brow shot up. “No tea is complete without a bottle of wine.”
She glowered at him and then laughed. Darcy inhaled, watching her. Her entire face lit up with inner joy, the sound rich and throaty. A ripple went through his body, quickly suppressed because alone with a young woman he had not been properly introduced to was not the time for such thoughts.
“I don’t know your name,” he said.
She paused. “I suppose we will meet again in company and be properly introduced. But for now, let’s not. It is almost fun that way.”
The enchanting gentlewoman never quite lost the edge to her manner, but as they spoke—sparingly, at her request—she seemed to relax, showing glimpses of a sharp wit and dry humour. An occasional flash of a smile riveted his attention, and Darcy forced himself to look towards the stream every once in a while so as not to discomfit her by
his scrutiny.
When had he ever sat in a woman’s presence, sharing something as simple as a country tea on the ground? Not since the last time he and George had managed to slip away, but they never actually slipped away. Someone was always there. That he had left Pemberley without his personal guard was due only to the use of a very expensive obscurement spell. When he returned, Grayson would give him hell, no doubt.
“I must return home,” she said. “I have been away too long.”
Darcy rose, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. “I offer escort, though I have a feeling you will refuse.”
A smile played around her lips. “I do, indeed, refuse.” There was no bite to her words, though.
“Well, then as far as the place where we met? And then I will bid you good day. And when next we meet, may I know your name.”
Darcy walked her as far as their original meeting spot and stood there until he could no longer see her retreating form. They would not, quite, be properly introduced where he would see her again. She would not know his real name. But see her again he would, even if he had to search her out.
Sometimes. . .you just know, my son.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth smoothed her hands down her dress, satisfied by the effect of the dull gown against her skin. She looked like a governess, hair styled more severely than normal, skin pale, expression hard.
Next to her, Jane appeared to be the most lovely of earth angels.
Elizabeth had laboured to rework a gown of that had once been the height of fashion. Jane’s hair was a dance of loops and braids piled on her head in a glorious halo of gold, locks interspersed with tiny flowers the wise woman had assured Elizabeth would not wilt until midnight.
They had better not—Elizabeth had paid good money for the enchantment, money she could not afford to squander. Jane also wore a necklace of the flowers and they dotted the skirt of her gown, giving the eldest Bennet girl an almost nymph-like appearance, setting off her frailty to advantage.
Perfect.
Lydia and Kitty chatted in the carriage, the tinkle of their voices for once not an irritant. “I heard he is bringing a party with him of three ladies and four gentlemen. Four gentlemen! If they are all as rich as he, we will all have husbands.”
Elizabeth listened to the chatter, the image of the handsome man with eyes of storm blue and a stern countenance fixed in her mind. If she had been a vain woman, she might have thought he sought her out after their evening encounter. She had shocked herself by agreeing to his presence on her walk to one of her private places, though the daft man had sworn a blood oath he meant her no harm with all the earnestness of a full grown school boy. But something about his manner intrigued. He intrigued. Erect carriage, exquisite if plain dress, authority in his direct stare. And, as they’d spent an afternoon together, obvious intellect unencumbered by the typical masculine arrogance that insisted women were but silly creatures and not capable of rational discourse.
“I heard it was two ladies and six gentleman,” Kitty said, “and I am certain my information is better than yours.”
Would he be among the gentlemen Mr Bingley brought to the assembly? The man had said he was a guest at Netherfield. He could not be Mr Bingley himself for Bingley was golden-haired, but a friend come to attend the ball in Bingley’s new residence. . .yes.
Lydia shrugged. “Your information may be better, but not your dancing.”
Kitty’s eyes narrowed.
Mary rolled her eyes, arms crossed over her chest. She wore a gown almost as drab as Elizabeth’s but there was no artifice in her attire. “I have changed my mind. I hope you all do wed rich men.”
Lydia glanced at Mary, surprised. “Mary! How kind of you to say so for once.” Her head tilted. “You are so clever with your little potions and what not. Since we are of the same accord, perhaps you could—”
“No.”
Mary’s refusal was an impregnable wall. “I hope you all wed for I have realised that is the only way you will ever have room in your head for an original thought. The poison is also the cure.”
“You’re so rude,” Kitty said, sniffing, “and with no cause. If you would just expend a little effort, you would be pretty. You enjoy skulking about like a forest witch.”
“Better a witch than a trollo—”
“It is a good thing you are all but promised to Collins,” Lydia said. “With that disposition, it would be impossible to find you a husband. At least he called on Mr Bingley and made his acquaintance, so he is not entirely incompetent.”
Mary said nothing, as usual neither affirming nor denying the unspoken understanding between her and Collins.
Elizabeth half wondered if Mary allowed them to think she and Collins all but engaged for the sheer amusement factor. Privately, Elizabeth thought if Mary had had any intention of marrying Collins, it would have happened by now. Lydia was correct, however. If Collins had not called upon Mr Bingley, attempting to introduce themselves to the eligible bachelor tonight would have been nearly impossible. She would have had to be indiscreet and beg the favour from Sir Lucas, perhaps.
“Girls,” Mrs Bennet said. “We are arrived. Remember, no matter how you bicker in private, once we are in public we show no disunity. We are Bennets of Longbourn.”
And that, Elizabeth thought, used to mean something.
Her younger sisters darted off through the crush as soon as they entered the hall.
Elizabeth made a mental note to keep an eye on the trio. Mary behaved with dignity, but Lydia and Kitty required a much firmer hand than their mother provided, even though they should have grown into the decorum of young adulthood by now. But Adelaide’s daughters or not, they were still Elizabeth’s sisters, carrying the name Bennet.
Jane was smiling, the energy of the crowd casting a rosy glow over her cheeks.
Elizabeth smiled, a trifle smug. “There’s not a woman here who can best you in beauty or temperament.”
Jane glanced at her sideways. “Lizzy, I wish you wouldn’t say such things. It is so. . . .”
“True? Spare me your false modesty, dear.” But her words lacked bite. She took Jane’s arm, squeezing it affectionately. “Let us find the best place to watch the doors so when this Bingley arrives, we will know it.”
Jane sighed. “I know better than to oppose you when you get a bit between your teeth. It is exhausting.”
They found a place out of the way that allowed them to watch the room so when the new master of Netherfield arrived with his guests, Elizabeth noticed the ripple in the room.
A party of five paused in the threshold, two elegantly dressed ladies, and a rather ordinary looking man who appeared as if he enjoyed his dinner each evening.
But her gaze zeroed in on two of the most distinguished gentlemen to have ever graced Meryton’s assembly room. Distinguished opposites, rather. One as golden as Jane, a smile already on his face as he looked around the room with the air of someone determined to enjoy himself. But the man next to him. . . .
Elizabeth’s heart raced for no reason other than contrariness. He was a bright blade, and a shadow. Tall, the cut and colour of his clothing severe, offsetting a chiselled face and dark hair. He also looked around the room, but he held himself apart. Aloof, even though he stood shoulder to shoulder with the man next to him.
So cold and so utterly different from the reserved but approachable man who had shared her picnic.
“That must be Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth murmured in Jane’s ear, her eyes all for the dark one. “He matches the description I was given. Golden hair and an agreeable demeanour.”
“He does look as if it would be pleasant to know him,” Jane said, her eyes fixed on the man. “But who is the gentleman next to him?”
“I do not know. I have not heard of him.” Did he have a twin? This man here was closer to he she had met under the shroud of night. The rigid shoulders, the set expression. She’d thought him a demon prince risen from the realm of Hades to come and snatch he
r away. Beautiful, proud, untouchable.
She also recalled his contentment with sharing a simple meal in silence, his discreet stares and the subtle wit as they spoke of small things. Each of them, she suspected, content to be away from their troubles for a while. Which version of him was the true man?
“I think I may have met him the other evening when I was walking.”
Jane’s head swivelled towards her. “Truly? You didn’t tell me.”
“There was nothing pleasant to tell. He nearly ran me over with his horse then implied I was too silly to see myself home. Careless and high-handed.”
Jane’s lips pursed. “Elizabeth. . .a gentleman offering escort is not high-handed. You have not stopped staring at him since he entered the room.”
She would never tell Jane of their second meeting. At least not until she had sorted through it in her own mind.
Elizabeth tore her stare away and scowled at Jane. “What is this nonsense? Come. Let us put you in Bingley’s path so he will ask you to dance.”
“Lizzy.” Exasperation flitted across Jane’s now slightly pink cheeks.
“Don’t worry. I shall make it look completely natural.”
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth turned towards the sound of Lydia’s voice. Her younger sister was rushing towards her, dragging a lean man in a soldier’s red coat in her wake. The open humour on his face was appealing, wheat-gold hair rather rakishly curled over his ears.
“Lizzy, Jane, I have met the most entertaining fellow. Mr Wickham. He is here with the regiment for the winter, he and his friend Denny—oh, where is Kitty?—and so I shall not be bored at all this season. I was so afraid I would be bored.”
“I have never known you not to devise some kind of entertainment for yourself,” Elizabeth said. She curtsied briefly. “Mr Wickham.”
“Miss Lizzy.”
“Miss Elizabeth. And my eldest sister, Jane”
“Of course.” He bowed, disentangling himself from Lydia’s grasp. “Miss Lydia has spoken much about you.”
Elizabeth glanced at Lydia quizzically. “About me?”
Prince Darcy Page 3